


woefully unprepared

by clayre



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Armored Sex?, Banter, Clothed Sex, Creampie, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Public Sex, Vaginal Sex, they're in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:01:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24420238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clayre/pseuds/clayre
Summary: The Warden has led Alistair to stranger places still, so the quiet back alleys of Denerim are a welcome detour ─ considerably more so when her intentions are made clear. After all, echoes of the Blight aren't the only dreams to come to the Grey Wardens, and the dreams aren't the only things coming.
Relationships: Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age), Alistair/Warden (Dragon Age)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 80





	woefully unprepared

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first fanfic in 8 years!! WOW!!! i wanted to do something easy and light to ease myself into it, so... gratuitous porn LOL i hope i've got everything tagged/situated correctly! if i missed a tag, hopefully someone can let me know 🥺 i tried to purposefully keep the warden vague, so she could be of any origin/appearance/etc and almost "self-inserty" for the warden of your liking, so hopefully it's not too distracting. if it is, i might change it up in later fics (assuming i get to them, of course, lol). is there a preference for that kinda thing? who knows!!! LOL
> 
> i'm pretty nervous sharing this, especially considering it's porn HAHA but i hope someone out there maybe enjoys it!! and if you're reading this... i love you, thanks for giving my fic a chance!!!

Denerim’s Market District, like any sunny day, was bustling and crowded as ever. The air was thick with perfumes and oils, salted meats, rich stews, pies with thick gravy, and, of course, the ever present smell of wet dog that characterized Ferelden. Overlapping murmurs and shouts were punctuated by the sounds of the forges, and of children playing and laughing. Neighbors gathered outside their doors and talked, leisurely, as though the Darkspawn horde was a faraway threat that could never hope to pierce their city’s stoic stone walls.

The Warden’s focus was on a different path, however, than wet dog and the clanging of steel when hammer met white-hot metal. The Blight, for once, was not the first thing she thought of when she woke up, despite the dreams that had eventually stirred her. It was strange: she’d jolted awake, sweaty and thrumming with energy, but she couldn’t remember what she’d dreamt about. Often she’d rise up from sleep with a perfectly clear image of milky white eyes beset in a dragon’s twisted face, haunted and chilled to the bone.

That morning, however, she’d woken up hot and flushed. The anxiety in her stomach wasn’t unpleasant, per se, but it had persisted from morning to early afternoon, and she couldn’t quite shake the constant murmur under her skin.

Even now, when she was normally at the head of their entourage, captaining their proverbial ship, she’d fallen behind. At first, she let Wynne overtake her, and then Leliana, and Alistair, until she lagged far enough behind that their conversations sounded fuzzy; luckily, she was at least aware of laughter when it occurred, and she figured that no practical strategizing was underway that she could be missing. That, or it was _very_ funny war planning. (The former seemed more likely, though Alistair had had some “interesting” ideas before.)

She was too caught up in her own head to be useful, she knew that, and knowing it made her frustrated, which made her try _harder_ to focus, and when she couldn’t, her frustration grew. And, truthfully, so did her embarrassment. She was a grown woman, and she wasn’t ashamed of certain … needs, but she wasn’t used to feeling so captive to them.

Fine. She could admit it to herself. She was an adult. Her dreams might not have been about the Blight. There! She said it. So she’d woken up that morning, _aching,_ there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s just … she couldn’t exactly put the Landsmeet on a pause, could she? It wasn’t as though she could request an audience with the noble lords and ladies of the court only to grovel, _please, sers, before you I come woefully unprepared for this assembly, because I just needed to come before. If you catch my meaning._

Which, really, is what this whole ordeal was. She felt like a rambunctious young girl who had just discovered sneaking off into hidden corners with her handsome suitor for the first time and could not yet control her urges; yet here she was, in perfectly decent company, all the while savoring the minuscule peek of Alistair’s nape over the gorget of his armor, under his hairline.

His skin was tan under the sunlight, perfectly dewy from the heat, and she was currently remembering the first time she kissed him there and the way he’d shuddered all over; the soft little breaths he let out when she helped unbuckle his chestpiece, the rough pads of his shaky fingers when he stroked them down her jaw like she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. 

And, of course, the way his hazel eyes had gone dark and wild when she sucked his thumb into her mouth right after.

“Oh,” Leliana was suddenly saying, cutting the Warden sharply from her thoughts, “do you smell that? I know it very well. Bath oils. It’s a popular scent in Orlais. It’s soothing; meant to relax the body and soul. There’s no better feeling than rubbing it on your weary skin after a nice hot bath! Like all your burdens aren’t so great, really.” Only then did the Warden realize Leliana had been watching her, and she tried not to flush at having her tense face being misconstrued as stress. “Would you mind if we stopped? I’d like a vial. Maybe you can try it, too? Oh, you would love it, I promise!”

Dumbly, the Warden nodded. She felt as though she should apologize, as though Leliana could see the lascivious things she was thinking, but she’d stepped away to the purveyor before the Warden could say anything. Wynne followed after her, and the Warden could hear her asking if the oil would help her old joints, too. 

_Well,_ she thought, _it’s a sweet sentiment all the same._ An undeserved sentiment, maybe, but what did she suppose she should say? _No, Leliana, really, I’m all right. Your concern is misplaced, I just want very badly to get fucked, as soon as possible._ Better for her to think the Warden was mulling over the dire straits of Thedas than mulling over cock.

Perhaps that was the wrong thing to ponder at the moment, though, because she practically leapt out of her plate when someone nudged her shoulder with their own. Pulse thrumming, she whipped her head around to see why she was being shouldered.

Alistair looked down at her, all teeth in his smile. “So, does this mean you’re going to start smelling like lavender or rosewater all the time? Because I think I could get used to that.”

The Warden put on her best affronted face. “Why, Alistair,” she started, “are you saying I smell bad?”

“Honestly, don’t we all,” he mused, “sleeping in the dirt like that. But, no, if you were really wondering. I don’t think you smell badly. Not always, at least. Just after getting covered in Darkspawn guts.” She whacked her palm against the bulk of his pauldron, the metal twanging, and he laughed. “Touchy!”

“You’re the one sweating,” she pointed out, eyeing what she could see of the line of his throat, just barely damp. “Maybe _you_ should smell like rosewater.”

“Oh yeah,” he agreed, “that’ll really scare the Darkspawn. Nothing more menacing than a Grey Warden charging in smelling like roses. Maybe they won’t want to eat my face off.” He feigned tugging at the collar of his chestpiece. “Anyways, it’s hot under all this armor!”

She laughed, conceding with, “It’s a little warm,” but she sounded distracted even to her own ears. Truthfully, she was still studying the skin of his throat, the way it bobbed when he swallowed, the muscle of it when he turned his head to look at the rest of their party. She wanted to lick along the line there, up to his jaw, taste the salt of his skin again.

They hadn’t been intimate since that first night, when he’d come to her, hushed and awkward and sincere. It wasn’t long ago at all, but considering his sheltered upbringing, she saw no reason to rush him.

(And, to be fair, they had been intimate _several_ times that night.)

Well. She had _seen_ no reason to rush him. Now, with the Landsmeet coming soon, the Darkspawn threat looming ever closer, the consistent dreams of an Archdemon looking her in the eye, there was a sudden urgency behind the thought of hearing his throat click when she kissed it, or feeling his hands jittery and clumsy and firm on her waist, her shoulders, her ─

She was perfectly happy to get lost in the reverie, but he was speaking again.

“Oh, Maker. They’re going to be forever.” He lolled his head to look at her petulantly. “D’ya hear that? They’re talking about Val Royeaux.” The Warden spared Leliana an unwilling glance, and sure enough, she and the dark haired merchant were engaged in a spirited conversation about their homeland. Wynne stood politely by, but it looked as though most of her focus was on the mage apprentice stood near as well, and they were chatting pleasantly. “Didn’t we come here to, I dunno, call the Landsmeet and dethrone Loghain? The man who wants us dead? Remember? You remember, right?”

He was the _last_ thing she wanted to think about, but she could never resist bantering with Alistair. “Loghain … Loghain …” The Warden rubbed at her chin, theatrically. “I’m not sure I do, actually. Which man who wants us dead is he again? There are an awful lot of them, wouldn’t you say?”

“Touché,” Alistair said, and the way he looked at her had her flushing down to her collarbone; so fond and smug, like he couldn’t get enough of her, and his voice sounded just as adoring. “Arl Eamon will be expecting us at his estate, nevertheless.”

She subtly pressed her thighs together, breathing out slow and quiet through her nose when the muscles in her legs twitched. The weight in her stomach had become a beast too fearsome to ignore, insistent and wanting, and she wondered exactly how scandalized they’d all be if she dragged him away to have her way with him. The idea of it was so heady that, before she could really give it thought, the idea of not having him was too unbearable to even consider.

“We saved his life,” she finally said, once she felt like her voice wouldn’t betray her, and she met Alistair’s eyes again. “Surely making him wait an hour wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, would it? It’s not as though Loghain will swoop down upon us and slaughter us all right here, in the middle of the market. Dressed in only his smallclothes. And wielding a bread knife.” A beat. “I mean, I hope not, at least. Stranger things have happened, I suppose.”

“Riiiiight,” he drawled, but he was smiling nonetheless, “like the little dance Connor made Bann Teagan do.”

She choked on her laughter. “You said it! Not me.”

“Thank you again. For that.” His tone was light, but he shifted on his feet, swaying into her space. He didn’t touch, but he looked down at her earnestly. “For helping the Arl. Saving his wife and child.”

Her smile grew, and she leaned in as well. “No need to thank me for an act of mercy,” she said, “but you could indulge me, if it pleased you.”

One of his eyebrows cocked up, his smile going a little crooked, effortlessly charming. “Oh? It would please me, my lady. Shall I grant you a boon? Have at it, then. But _please_ don’t tell me you want those bath salts.”

“Oils,” she corrected, studying his face and envisioning him oiled up and wet all over, wanting so badly to kiss his mouth, “but no, not those.” With great effort, she pulled away from him, closing the distance between her and the stalls of the markets.

“Why don’t you two look around the marketplace?” she proposed, letting one hand cup Leliana’s shoulder, and the other Wynne’s. “Alistair and I want to look around as well. There’s a smith here who may have use for Drake scales. Say we meet back here in an hour?”

 _“Only_ an hour?” Leliana asked, coy.

“Merciful Andraste,” the Warden chastised, rolling her eyes, and it was only by the grace of the Maker that she didn’t blush. Leliana was closer to the truth than she knew, but like Blight she’d admit it aloud. _“Yes,_ an hour. We do have things to do, you know.”

“I did want to peruse The Wonders of Thedas…” Wynne acquiesced, graciously not commenting on Leliana’s impish look. “Then we’ll meet in an hour.” Just as the Warden thought she’d escaped mostly unscathed, Wynne was saying to Leliana, “Come, let our young lovers frolic. I know exactly the forge Alistair’s going to hammer.”

The look of bright delight on Leliana’s face made the sun look dim, and the Warden gaped at the both of them while Wynne loftily smiled back.

“The ─ the _what?”_ Alistair’s voice cut in from behind. “Did I miss something? I feel like I just missed something.”

“No, no, Alistair. We’re just teasing you two,” Leliana assured him, but she still grinned at Wynne nonetheless. “‘Til then.”

The Warden didn’t wait for any more from them, turning on her heel and marching back to Alistair’s side. She snatched his arm up and led him away from the bustle of the market’s hub and the giggling from their compatriots, walking aimlessly towards the Gnawed Noble. When she felt his arm bend at the elbow, she slowed her walk a little, adjusting her hold on him until her palm was seated comfortably in the crook of it, her other hand resting on his bicep. She felt a bit silly when they smiled broadly at each other, giddy with the simple intimacy, but Alistair captivated her in ways no one else ever had.

She knew it was the same for him, too. While it wasn’t important, not really, the idea that she’d been the first woman he’d ever bedded was … flattering. He’d stressed how he wanted it to be perfect, how he wanted it to be _her,_ that he couldn’t wait anymore, and it was hard not to preen a little under that sort of adulation. He made her feel beautiful.

“So,” he said, after clearing his throat, “where are we going? Don’t tell me you want me to buy you an ale. That’s hardly worthy of saving Redcliffe.” 

She pointedly walked past the tavern, silent, but she gave him an answer through a sly smile.

The air around him instantly went static, rife with nervous energy of the best sort. “A surprise, then,” he said, in that tone he got when he was on the backfoot, “shall I close my eyes to really sell it?”

“You could,” the Warden replied, and she knew she was feeding off his energy, feeling anxious and hot, low in her stomach. “But it won’t be anywhere special.” As she spoke, she saw the entryway to an alley, tucked behind Denerim’s supports, covered up with scaffolding that looked long abandoned. Spurred by urgency, she tilted them onto that path. She let her hands slide down, holding onto his forearm as she paced herself in front of him, leading him on.

He laughed, the sound tense, and he asked, “When Wynne said that ─ that bit about the forge ─” His arm flexed in her grip, but he let her drag him from the main roads to the back alleys, until they were alone under the tunnel. Just outside, in the light, the Warden could see sprawling buildings, but the yards were empty and deserted.

When she turned to look at Alistair instead, she was pleased to find him flushed, eyes dark and wide. “Suppose that’s what I wanted,” she started, a little breathless, “suppose I … didn’t want to wait.” She licked over her bottom lip, watching his eyes lock onto the movement, and let her hand trail slowly down his forearm until it was wrapped around his own. “Would that be … unwelcome?”

Their hands hung loosely between them. _“Here?”_ he whisper-shouted, scandalized. “Now?” 

She let his hand go. Her tassets made a weak metal sound as she shifted, the bulk of her pauldrons scraping quietly against the stone wall as she leaned back, canting her hips forward. Shamelessly, she slipped her hand underneath her faulds, down the leather of her pants, until the sun warmed metal of her gauntlets met too-wet skin, and she shuddered as she slipped two fingers against her cunt.

Alistair was watching. She almost couldn’t look him in the face, but the dark heat of his eyes was like a magnet, and she watched him too, just as rapt as he was. Her fingers twitched, rubbing just enough to coat the metal generously, before she was withdrawing and holding her hand between them.

The sound he made was wounded and breathy, like she’d just struck him in the sternum.

“Here,” the Warden confirmed, voice gruff, “now. Look what you’ve done to me already.” She rubbed the slick metal together, and Alistair’s hand found purchase on the wall behind her when the evidence of her arousal stretched obscenely between her fingers. His arm bent at the elbow, putting his mouth close to her face, and his other hand shakily gripped her wrist. “Is it unwelcome?” she repeated, quiet.

“Maker, _no,”_ he said empathically, and his own volume had dropped to match hers. She spread her fingers again, and his mouth dropped open. “I’ve done that to you?” He laughed, quiet and strained. “I’ve done nothing. In fact, I distinctly remember implying you smelled bad.”

She hummed, careful in how she pushed her arm up against his grip, until her fingers breached his mouth. “Are you fishing for compliments, Alistair?” she asked, tone distinctly dark. She could see the air leave him in a rush, his eyelashes fluttering while he tried to focus his eyes on her face. “Because you’re handsome. You know you’re handsome.” The wet glisten of his mouth when she scissored her fingers made her cunt throb. “You’re the most handsome man I’ve ever seen. The funniest. The sweetest. I think about you being inside me all the time. It drives me out of my mind. I need you. Do you hear me? I need you, Alistair, now and ever.”

He groaned, sucking her wetness from her fingers. “You’ll be the death of me, my dear,” he insisted once he’d finished, the metal of her gauntlets clicking against his teeth when he removed her from his mouth. “But who am I to deny you? Now or ever?”

It was a clumsy affair after that ─ she refused to spend longer than necessary trying to undress, so they both put in the joint effort to pull her smallclothes and chausses down, leaving them pulled taut just above her cuisses. She could spread her legs, but not by much. It didn’t matter to either, Alistair least of all. He’d stripped his gauntlet and glove off, fit his hand against her before she could even get her footing sorted. She breathed out a broken sound, letting her head fall back to rest against stone.

“Maker, but you’re wet,” he said, adoringly. “You’ve ruined your smallclothes.”

 _“You_ ruined my smallclothes,” she corrected him, around a low moan, “don’t you remember?”

His teeth were hot and sharp against her jaw, and he agreed in a dark timbre, “Yes, that’s right. I did this to you.” He kissed at her, eager, then excitedly echoed, “I can’t believe I did this to you. Me! To you! You could have any man in Thedas, but _I’m_ the one who does this to you.” She hummed in agreement, desperate for more than just his fingers, but he wasn’t quite done talking. “You’d think _you_ were the repressed Chantry boy, getting all hot and bothered while in decent company.”

She laughed, but the sound was choked and weak as his calloused fingers worked over her, up and down, rubbing against her clit slow and full of tender intent. “It was your neck,” she admitted, breathlessly, unable to stop herself from rolling her hips into his palm, “I wanted to put my mouth on it.”

“Well! My lady! I am scandalized. Shall I show you a slip of my wrist next?” he teased, but the waver in his voice betrayed him.

“You don’t have to,” she suddenly choked out. Her hips made abortive movements despite herself, muscles in her stomach tightening and twitching while she tried to slow herself. “Touch me, I mean,” she amended, and then hiccuped. “Ah, Alistair! You could ─ you could have come into my tent this morning and I’d have been wet enough for you. I’ve been thinking of you all day.”

“Lady’s breath,” he cursed, ripping his hand away and fumbling with his own faulds, clunky and in his way, “but you’ll be the death of me.”

“You’ve said,” the Warden agreed, widening her stance just by another inch. The leather around her thighs was pulled tight, digging almost uncomfortably into her skin, but it gave him just enough room to fit between them. “Do you need me to … get _you_ ready?”

The laugh that followed told her everything she needed to know, but dear, sweet, sincere Alistair answered her nonetheless. “No, my love, I think you’ve done a well enough job of that already.” True to his word, when he’d wrestled his own chausses low enough to pull himself out, he was flushed and hard. “Have I told you that you’re beautiful?” Somehow, she managed to pull her eyes away from his cock, mouthwatering as it was, and looked him in the face. “Really, truly, have I told you that you’re the most beautiful woman in Ferelden? In _Thedas?”_

“Yes,” she confirmed, but her voice was bright and shaky even to her own ears, “yes, a hundred times, a thousand.”

They were as close as they could be, chest plates pressed together and creaking whenever Alistair tried to squeeze closer. It was enough so that he’d fit his cock between her thighs, slowly moving against her cunt to make the entry wet and easy, the air heavy and thick and hot. It shouldn’t have been so, the Warden thought, not since they were outside, but they were breathing each other’s air, and Alistair’s sweaty forehead was pressed against her own.

“And I’ll say it a hundred times more,” he said, sounding wrecked. “A thousand. Always.” She clutched at his pauldrons, trying to find purchase against his shoulders as though they were naked, and he had a firm hold of her jaw. He urged her, gentle, to tilt her chin up, and when she did she was rewarded with the soft press of his mouth. His stubble scraped against her skin in a way that sent electric shivers down her spine, and she jerked her hips forward again, trying to encourage him inside. “No luckier a man than I has or ever will live.”

She let one hand slap against his nape, keeping him there and pressing her forehead harder against him. “And no luckier woman.” She pressed a kiss to his jaw, his cock hot and slick between her folds, and the whimper that escaped her made him sigh. “Alistair,” she grit out, so tense and desperate for it that she was practically on her tiptoes, trying to angle him inside, _“please.”_

Their first time, that had been his sort of thing ─ hushed pleas, choked off requests ─ but she was happy enough to take on the mantle for the time being, gripping the hairs at the base of his skull. He mouthed sloppily at her jaw, holding her gentle by the throat, while his other hand helped to line himself up. In one smooth motion, he’d pressed inside, rushed and all at once and perfect.

The Warden grunted out a relieved moan, thighs tense and straining against her underclothes. The shock of pleasure had her back arching, taut like a drawn bow. Even Alistair had gone still all over, his stubbled cheek pressed flush to hers, huffing out his own labored noise. Now she _was_ on her tiptoes, trying to help account for their difference in height, and his knees were bent just slightly. Were it not for the armor they both wore, she’d imagine he’d just pick her up, but she wasn’t of the mind to wait nor find an inn, not for just a moment of indulgence.

She was content to let him be still for a breath, but it soon turned into two, turned into three. The full feeling inside of her was delicious, and she could feel herself trembling around him, but it was exactly that intoxicating pleasure that made her impatient for more. She was _aching_ , needing more than anything for him to move, so she pulled lightly at his hair, making him tilt his head back. He followed obediently, a low noise falling from his parted mouth, and she demanded, “Alistair, hurry.”

“Give me a moment.” His voice was sandpaper rough. “I just ─ I need a moment. Maker, you’re so hot inside. I don’t want ─ I don’t want this to be over too soon, is all. Please, just…” 

Charmed, she let him have his moment. Instead, she focused on fisting his hair, firm, and pulling his head back until the golden expanse of his throat was bared to her. Finally she put her mouth on him, sucking the sweat from his skin and kissing a line along his jaw. His hips jerked forward, almost imperceptibly, but she felt it inside. “That’s it,” she gasped out, ducking low to mouth at his Adam’s apple.

He groaned, both hands dropping to fit around her waist. Gripping her, he helped her up further, though not by much, and slowly ground against her. He was full and thick inside her, a perfect pressure that had her knees buckling when he finally pumped in, a little deeper, and then rocked back. 

_“That’s it,”_ she echoed, letting her palm cup the back of his neck again, eyes fluttering shut. He hummed out a pleased noise, one of agreement, and boxed her in against the stone, adjusting their stance so he and the wall bore the brunt of their weight. “Perfect,” she told him, a compliment that had him snapping his hips forward like he just couldn’t help it; she rewarded the motion with another kiss to his throat, biting down against the muscle and sucking hard. The sound he made was weak and broken, and, in his passion, he couldn’t seem to keep his hands still, ghosting over her sides and her hips.

It was quick and dirty, the way he pressed her against the wall and rutted forward. His hands pulled her towards him by the waist so she could meet his rhythm, hard and insistent. She was up-and-down on the balls of her feet to match his movement, and she panted against his neck, soothing her hand down his skin. Each press of him inside her had her seeing sparks, and he moved like he was reluctant to pull out even an inch, buried deep and staying there as much as he could.

With her hold on his hair released, he’d dropped his head to bury his face in her throat, his breath hot and wet and fast over her skin. Thoroughly endeared by his efforts to get closer, the Warden let her head loll back, focusing on the sensation of him inside her, against her, around her. Normally, she’d consider herself to have a sort of prowess when it came to being with men, but she was already close to her climax; she’d been so tense, so ready for it, that finally having Alistair was a relief and delight beyond words. Her voice must have reflected the sentiment, because each little moan that he pulled out of her made his smile against her neck grow. 

“Don’t get so smug,” she told him, though the heat behind her words was purely carnal.

“Not a clue what you mean,” was his answer, and his stubble scraped across her cheek when he lifted his head to steal another kiss from her, eager and a little clumsy.

The next sound she made was broken around his tongue, his name half-formed and swallowed down by him before she could even get it past her lips. His pace slowed, just slightly, and she bit his lip in her frustration. “I can feel you smiling, you wicked man.”

He pulled away from her, just barely, so he could grin at her to her face. “Can you blame me, my lady?” He rocked his hips forward, sheathed inside her, and stirred his hips in a way that had her breathless. She could feel herself tight around him, the muscles in her core and thighs spasming, and she rocked up on her tiptoes and went taut and still so as not to disturb or disrupt the perfect position he’d found. “The most beautiful woman in Ferelden couldn’t _wait_ to ravish me. You’ll have to forgive me if I grin and look foolish for a while.” Despite his words, his tone wasn’t unaffected; he sounded as debauched as she felt, and she could feel his cock so hard and deep inside her that she was rendered utterly speechless, reduced to breathing out little _ah’s_ and _oh’s._ “I’m going to be thinking about this all day, just so you know,” he continued, almost conversational, “and it will please me to no end to see you impress and captivate everyone as you always do, with them none the wiser that you practically begged me to ─”

He stammered, suddenly, eyes dark and wide; the Warden had arched her back, chestplate bumping up against his own, as her thighs trembled with the force of her climax. Her boot scraped against the ground when the muscles in her legs flexed and contracted, and Alistair’s hands went tight around her waist and against her ass, holding her to him as she shook. Her own hands gripped onto his biceps, and she practically _squirmed_ against him, though she’d never admit it.

“Did ─ did you just ─”

She didn’t give him time to be proud of himself. _“Yes,”_ she rasped, curt, “keep going.”

He didn’t need to be told twice, thank the Maker. He buried his naked hand between her, holding her bare thighs open as he pumped himself in; whilst he was reluctant to leave her before, he was more of the mind, now, rutting into her with long, deep strokes that had her breathing out pitched little moans. As the quakes from her orgasm faded, she found herself lucid and clear minded for what felt like the first time that afternoon.

She wasn’t yet overwhelmed with sensation, the current pleasure a dull echo amidst the throb of such fresh gratification, so she renewed her focus on her partner. She met him press for press, rocking forward when he drove inside. His breathing was hard and fast, and the sounds of their armor clattering together would almost be comical if she wasn’t so fond of the man before (and inside) her. She could see his brow drawn tight, and she pressed kisses there as he worked towards his own climax. When she willfully tensed up, tight and obscenely wet around him, a broken groan escaped him and he wrenched his face away, like he was embarrassed.

“Alistair,” she breathed out affectionately, “but I’m taken with you.” He made a shocked little noise, as though he hadn’t known, and she ran her hand down his face, urging him to look at her. “I want you all the time.” His eyes were soft, unfocused even as he met her gaze, and the rhythm he had mastered had gone jerky and unpracticed. “You’re beautiful in the firelight,” she told him, tracing the shape of his parted mouth with her fingers, “and when you shave, in your linen shirt with the hole near the hem.” He laughed, but it sounded ripped out of him. “I love to watch it, I love to see the faces you make, when your eyes go all squinty ─ ah ─”

He hilted abruptly; he seemed to be still and trembling all at once, and she swore that, if she focused hard enough, she could almost feel him filling her. She concentrated on the sensation, the warmth of him, the wetness between her thighs that made her feel slippery and wicked. His breaths came out harsh and noisy, his forehead pressed into her shoulder, and she soothingly stroked her fingers through his hair as he finished inside her. Scraping her nails down his scalp made him practically melt, so she kept doing it until his hands were gentle on her waist, if not a little frantic, to have her stop rocking up on the balls of her feet to stroke him inside her.

“Maker preserve me,” he grunted, and then he was leaning back to give her the squinty eyes she’d just been describing. “Was _that_ your dirty talk?”

She laughed despite herself, cupping his face in her hand. “No. Though it seemed to work well enough, did it not?”

The flushing on his cheeks could easily be explained away through their exertions, or the fact he’d just spent himself; coupled with the way he looked away, however, she knew better.

“Well, a stunning woman complimenting me isn’t exactly the worst thing to hear,” he pointed out weakly, “even if I have to question her fascination with my, er, squint, as it were.” He pulled away from her, careful in how he left her, and they spent the next few moments putting themselves back together.

The grin on her face was obnoxious even to her, but she was tender in the afterglow of their coupling. Once they were decent, she palmed his cheek again, claiming his attention. “Like I said: I’m quite taken with you.”

Shyly, he returned her smile, his ears pink. “And I you.”

She stroked her thumb down his warm skin, leaning in to kiss him; it was chaste this time, borne out of affection rather than lust, and his arms wrapped tight around her waist as he hauled her ever closer to him while he returned it.

“Not that this wasn’t a brilliant plan that I enjoyed very much,” he said, once they’d separated, “but I _do_ have to point out that you’re going to be meeting the Arl with, ah, how should I put this … With the future Theirin heirs all over your smallclothes?”

She could have screamed, really. “Don’t ever say it that way again. That’s disgusting.” Even as she said it, peals of laughter escaped her after every other word, and he joined in, holding the brunt of her weight against him. Her cheeks were hot, and she buried her face in her hands. “There’s ─ there are shops! This is the largest market in Denerim! I’ll just, ahem, make a stop. We still have a couple minutes before Wynne and Leliana are expecting us, surely.”

“More than a couple,” Alistair pointed out gravely. “This was not our proudest moment, you know. Like a couple of teenagers, honestly.”

The Warden grinned at him. “Speak for yourself. I’m very proud.”

His laugh was infectious, and he slung an arm around her shoulders to steer her away from the stone walls of the tunnel. A quick glance over his arm showed her that the yards were still empty, but she wasn’t sure if she’d have cared even if they weren’t.

“Well, if we’re going shopping, I’ve heard that the Orlesians make very _pretty_ smallclothes.” His tone was casual. “The kind that aren’t so functional as they are pleasing to the eye.”

“Oh? I imagine you’re going to be very vocal about which you prefer.”

“Yes I am. And, if this afternoon was any indicator, you might want to get several pairs. Just in case. In different colors. I hear some of them come as just little strings.”

The Warden snorted. “Doesn’t hurt to be prepared?” she prompted.

Alistair’s answering grin was beautiful. “You never know.”

(“My word,” Wynne said later, sounding exactly like an exhausted mother. “You realize, of course, that Leliana and I were simply jesting? Really. You two ought to be ashamed.”

“Whaaat ... do you mean?” Alistair asked suspiciously, but his cheeks were already starting to crimson.

“You have a little, uh,” Leliana wiggled her finger up near her jawline, her smile coy. “My, but she bit you.” The giggle that escaped her was musical. “Looks like you wooed her after all, Alistair.”

Alistair’s palm thwacked over the bruise on his neck. “What! What? Stop smiling at me! I, no no no, it’s not like _that!_ Tell them it isn’t like that. This is just, there was, it’s a funny story actually ─ you see ─ uh, well ─”

The Warden, stoic, said nothing. She was busy thinking of the pretty smallclothes sitting at the bottom of her satchel, and the promise that came with them.)


End file.
